Still of the Night
by PhantomProducer
Summary: Not all is quiet in the still of the night. Not every night is a night of rest. Two instances in the lives of Steve Rogers and Holly Martin prove just that. First part takes place during "At Day's End," and the second takes place during "The Eleventh Hour." Two-shot part of the "Of Time" series.
1. Chapter 1

**A/N:** Another story for the _Of Time_ series timeline! This one will be of a slightly darker tone than what is the norm of my writing...I guess to combat the fluff I am inevitably prone to producing. Possible triggers for death, injuries, bleeding, war (all in dreams), and slight PTSD (not in dreams). There, you're warned .Also, this story is UNBETA'ED. This is mostly due to my personal schedule being a little different from others', and therefore harder to coalesce with someone else's. As such, I do proofread, edit, and restructure my own writing. I try my best, but I am not perfect.

I own nothing from the MCU, nor do I own any possible pop culture references made in the text. I just own the original character, Holly. Her climes and times in regards to Steve Rogers can be read about in the _Of Time_ series of Captain America/Avengers stories I have (check out the My Stories tab on my page).

Lastly—I'm not a doctor of any kind, let alone a psychologist, etc. If you're having any sort of trouble, please seek help in whatever way you can.

Now that's all said, read on!

* * *

November, 2014

 _The air was cool, holding a hint of winter beneath the autumn chill. The grass on the ground was browning as the seasons turned. The pine needles of the tree break where they were hiding shifted and slanted under their boots, the deadened scent overlaying the whiffs of smoke and gunpowder. Grey clouds cast the land in shadow, light blotted and muted as they waited. It was as if no time at all had passed. His team, his friends, stone-faced and sure, stood with him. Falsworth said something biting, Dugan answered back with a smirk and tip of his cap as Morita rolled his eyes. Jacques and Gabe conversed lowly, pointing at the ridge ahead. The target, a small warehouse sitting out beyond a field, awaited them. Sharing a fast look with Bucky, Captain America nodded, gesturing with two fingers and telling them to move out._

 _A simple assault, he knew what it was meant to be. What it had become was chaos and destruction. The raid had gone awry, HYDRA's forces swarming over the Howling Commandos like a plague of locusts. One after another streaming forward, Allied forces following behind as he led the way. Black armor, black masks made them look like encroaching demons, soulless bodies crashing and hollering as they met in the middle. A hail of fire rained down upon them, his shield deflecting all. However, the deflection of the bullets caused them to launch around him, with no control exerted over where they would fly._ _One struck Morita, another pierced Dugan, both men falling in quick succession_ _. His friends, he was killing his friends in the act of protection._

 _What was happening?_

"Steve…"

 _The distant cry was lost amidst the others. Comrades, fellow soldiers fell, torn to shreds as he ran amongst them. The crack of gunfire continued to echo around him, joining in with distant whistle and pop of the aerial assault. Pelting bullets pierced the earth, pierced the bodies surrounding him, and he could do nothing but run towards them all. His hands reached, tried to pull the men to safety, but his fingers gripped at air, gripped at sleeves and shoulders as they collapsed, broken and bleeding. The ground beneath his feet rocked; another bomb had been dropped, that one much closer than the others. He could see the fire pluming in the distance, the flames consuming all and flickering over the fallen._

"Steve."

 _The voice called again, the feminine tone clashing terribly with the cacophony around him. He dropped to his knees, impervious to physical pain even as he let his shield fall. Bullets whizzed by, passed through his arms and legs, one piercing his gut. He bled, but felt nothing. He could only stare at his friends, dead around him. They had followed him into battle, followed him into war, and it had cost them everything. He had cost them everything; he wasn't quick enough, wasn't good enough to stop them from dying. More wails, more falling echoed. The clouded sky reflected fire, rained ash, and he was choking on his own breath. The crunch of boots caught his attention, drew his gaze as they stopped in front of him. Slowly, he looked up, looked into the eyes of the enemy. Eyes of dark, intense hatred, face reddened by more than a mere accident. A ragged flag was in his hands, the ripped stars and stripes standing out starkly against the cold, black leather of the enemy's gloves. He sneered up at him, and the other merely sniffed, winding the cloth around the broken captain's neck._

 _He would choke him with his own country's symbol, hang him in the name of its principles. And he could not stop him. Arms were locked at his sides, frozen in place as the cloth constricted, each breath threatening to be his last..._

"STEVEN!"

Finally, the female voice pierced through, white light searing his gaze as the world went silent. At once, he jerked awake, the haze of sleep broken by fear and fury. Legs and fists twisted and flailed, tangled up in sheets. His eye snapped open, the black and red of the enemy's victory fading in the low lamplight. The bodies of his comrades, his friends, faded away as he took stock of the green-grey sheets of the bed, the dresser by the far wall. Deep, shaking gasps rumbled in his chest as he dragged his eyes away from the stillness and calm, his body turning to face the opposite side of the bed. There stood Holly, flannel sleeves turned up at the elbows, her hands halfway reaching out to him as he struggled back into reality. Still, she did not touch him; rather, she let him regain his bearings on his own, something she had learned was necessary as he pulled himself away from the edge of darkness.

Steve Rogers blinked, breathed, and then groaned as he realized what was going on. It had happened. Again. It was a nightmare, another nightmare.

"Holly," he muttered, voice half-ragged with sleep as he pushed himself to sit up. Resting against the headboard, he watched as she combed through her loose hair, the tie around her wrist binding it back and allowing the starkness of the shadows under her eyes to be seen. Trying to catch his breath still, he turned his palm over, beckoning her to come to him. "Doll…"

"Are you okay?" she nearly whispered, kneeling onto the bed and shuffling over to his side. Slowly, her fingers threaded through the disarrayed strands of his blond hair, softening the spikes it had been drawn up to in slumber. Her wide brown eyes peered at him, concern and care lacing the irises. "You know where you are?"

Slowly, he nodded, the thump of his heart still resonating in his ear. "I'm, I'm…here."

Gesturing at the bedroom, at the door to the rest of the apartment, it was all he could do to convey that he understood where he was. He was not on the battlefield, or caught up in a mission from hell. He was home; he was in D.C. with her. She dipped her chin at him, the answer good enough for her. Leaning forward, she pressed a kiss to his forehead and inhaled sharply. Now that he was awake and aware of his surroundings, she could proceed to the next step.

"Hold on, sweetie," she murmured, noticing his hard swallow bobbing his Adam's apple. As she began to move back toward the edge of the bed, his hand shot out, snatching at her wrist (the one without the splint; her recovery after crashing Sam's SUV was on track, and he didn't want to mess that up). Glancing back up at him, at his distressed blue gaze, she stopped. His throat caught, unable to allow him to ask her to stay. Carefully, she brought up her palm up to his cheek, cradling his face softly. Eyelids fluttered shut, and he leaned into the touch, his grip relaxing minutely. Stroking her thumb along his cheekbone, she promised, "I'll be right back."

A few more seconds passed, and he let his grasp slacken, let her maneuver away from him. Swiftly, she disappeared down the hall, her quiet footfalls absorbed by his harsh breathing. Steve put his head in his hands as the rush and slap of running water echoed from two separate places. Scrubbing his red-rimmed eyes, he took in deep breaths, calming himself little by little. The cool sweat of his brow was dashed away, making him aware of the slickness on his back. Picking up the hem of his shirt, he pushed off the sheets tangled around his hips, swinging his legs over the side of the mattress as he pulled the article off. Letting drop to the floor, he rested his elbows on his knees, glimpsing the bedroom door as it creaked open out the corner of his eye. His guard had not dropped, even though he knew it was just Holly returning with a glass of water.

"Here. Drink slowly," she reminded him gently, letting him take the glass from her as she stepped up to his side. The mattress dipped slightly as she sat down next to him, watching him take his time and drinking deeply. The cup was set aside, half-emptied as he sat up straighter.

"Thank you," he muttered, the taut set of his muscles starting to relax.

"Brought you this, too," she said, proffering the item in her other hand. A wet washcloth dangled from her fingers. The next part of the jerry-rigged recovery process, the next step to get him away from the nightmare and root him back in the real world. Though he did not wake her often for that part, she had participated before. And woken up to the evidence when she hadn't.

Taking the washcloth, he nodded before swiping at his face with it. "Again, thanks."

"You're welcome."

Moving to drop it on the nightstand, Holly stopped him with a shake of her head. Quirking his brow, he handed the wet cloth back to her, curious as to what she wanted to do with it. Balling it up a little, her free hand tapped at his shoulder, prompting him to lean forward slightly. Scooting closer, she gingerly pressed the cloth upon the nape of his neck, and he closed his eyes at the small flush of relief. His own heat eventually made the cloth warm, the sogginess of it clinging. She slipped from his side, darting into the bathroom to soak it under cold water and wring out the excess once more. When she and the cool relief returned, he sighed, the slight tremor in his hand stilled as he cupped her braced knee, squeezing it tenderly in appreciation (nary a cry came from her when he did so, which was a good sign; she was healing well enough). A peck grazed his shoulder, feather-light and dry on his skin.

"It was…it was a bad one, huh?" she broached cautiously. Though it had not been the first time that her super-soldier boyfriend had been racked by bad dreams, she could tell that it had gone beyond monsters and bullies beating him up, beating him down. The sharpness in his form told her as much; it was worse. It was the first time she'd had to scream him awake, against what she had read and he himself had told her to do. She'd been too frightened to let him continue sleeping, just from looking at his broken expression and curling body while locked in it when his shaking woke her.

In the back corner of her mind, she wondered if the sweat tracks she'd seen earlier on his face were partially tears, and it made her heart shrivel to contemplate it.

His eye-roll, however, caught her off-guard. "Never had a good nightmare before, so yeah."

The bite of his tone made her flinch, and her brow furrowed, affronted by it. While she understood that the snap had more to do with himself than with her remark, she didn't think it was deserved. She was just trying to help.

"Excuse me," she retorted, doing her best to keep the cattiness out of her tone. Evidently, she had failed, given the fast glance he shot her. Her shoulders shrugged, and she wrapped her arms around her middle, withdrawing into herself as he slowly realized how he'd sounded. His face creased, and he blew out a sigh.

"Oh, geez...look, I, I'm sorry," he stumbled over the words, scratching the back of his neck and staring at his feet. It wasn't his intention to make her feel worse by trying to make him feel better. Tiredly, he continued, "It's just...memories. Sort of. More like memories that were twisted into something worse."

Holly looked at Steve, at the exhaustion and the muted sorrow in his irises. At the heartache and the hurt. She expelled a slow breath out her nose, accepting his apology with a nod, not actually upset with him. She took his hand in hers, slotting the fingers together and butting her shoulder up against his.

"If it's okay for me to ask, were they recent or old ones that got warped?" she asked hesitantly. It was unlikely that he would open up about his nightmares (he rarely did, particularly with the ones she knew in her heart were the most painful, or graphic), but from what she knew of him and his life, he had plenty of inspiration lurking in his subconscious. And with all that had happened in the past couple of months—the Halloween raids, Bucky's return and subsequent disappearance the month prior to that, her own meddling—it was hardly surprising that the buried feelings in him would force their way out.

"Old," he affirmed, taking another sip of water. Setting the glass onto the night stand, his hand curled a little harder around hers, a little rougher as the flashes of the dream scorched his mind. The residual frustration and fright in his soul wormed its way out, pouring from his mouth as he was, suddenly, moved to confession. The waterfall from his tongue was unstoppable, the honesty unnerving. "War isn't glamorous, you know. Tried to watch a couple of the movies about the war, just to see what people thought, came up with…the real thing is very different. It isn't some bold stand and speeches made and glory waving you on. It's dirt, blood, and death around every corner. So many things are thrown at you in the space of a single second—a bomb, bullets, another person sometimes—and you only have the smallest moment of time to react. To survive, to make it to the next moment. It's good people bleeding and dying, sometimes for no better reason than to be caught in the wrong place at the wrong time. Or with the wrong company. Watching those people die in the field, and knowing there isn't a damn thing you can do to change it. It's making a decision that could either cost you everything or nothing." Steve grabbed the water glass again, emptying it in one long pull. Beside him, Holly sat mutely, the blood in her face draining as he spoke. "It's pain on top of hurt, and still moving from one place to the next. Because you have to. Because you need to. And no matter how far you come or how much things change back home, it will still be there, in the back of your mind." There he paused, his fingers gripping tighter still, emphasizing each word as they rattled out of his mouth. The smallest whimper in her throat finally registered, and immediately his hand was loose in hers. Instead, he began picking at his sleep pants with his free one, concentrating on that as his voice dropped lower. "Because once you live it, you can't ever forget it."

Telling her had not been a conscious decision. Something in him, though, had compelled him to speak. He knew she would never really understand what he relived in his dreams, what had been contorted and transformed due to his own feelings and inadequacies. There was so much in his life that she didn't understand. But she tried, was trying, had figured out a few things for herself. And she would continue to try, even knowing that he could fall farther still. Knowing that things like that would not be a one-off or easily put aside. Instead, she held his hand, her dark eyes focusing on a point on the wall and her jaw set. He looked at her as her brain raced furiously, a slow, steady answer coming out after his wave of misery had dissipated.

"It's part of you, part of your history. I don't think you should forget it," Holly enunciated, palm retracted from his and laying on the bare skin of his back. Smooth strokes coursed up and down as she consoled him, the warmth of her touch soothing him. Shaking her head, she observed, "At least, you shouldn't forget the ones who gave their lives for nothing less than what they believed in. But it's not the whole. There's more in there than the hard memories. So many good ones, ones that you need to hang onto even when it hurts. Even when the bad ones show up."

Every word was chosen with care, with the best of intentions. And while they did not erase the hurt and the bloody truth of the past, of his previous existence, they did alleviate something inside him. No ridicule, no quip or sarcastic joke. No willful ignorance. Just some simple truth, and for that he was grateful. Steve couldn't forget it (wouldn't ever let himself forget it, his mind promised), but it could be laid to rest, put aside. He scanned her face; he saw the hint of hopefulness there, optimism there despite the stiff realism. For that, he kissed her, the hard, passionate entreaty met with a squeak and a sigh (and perhaps a low mewl, buried deep within, the slight reverberations barely perceived by his enhanced hearing. In any event, he was stirred, and it compelled him to deepen the embrace). One arm curled around her waist, his other hand going into her hair—the binder stymied him a little, but it was knocked loose enough so he could push into the soft strands. She cupped his jaw, meeting him stroke for stroke as their lips pressed, tongues sliding and brushing against one another. It was over all too quickly, but progressing any further would be a mistake. Comfort offered in such a way would hold a note of sourness upon completion, and he did not want to spoil their first time together in that manner.

"What can I do?" she wondered when they broke apart, licking her lips and brushing a fingertip over his clavicle. Having an altogether different reason to catch his breath, he rested his forehead against hers, eyes screwing shut against the last ebb of fear and pain coursing up.

"Just…just stay up with me, please," he begged quietly, his shoulders slumping a little. It made him feel small, little and lost. "I can't go back to sleep just yet. I don't want a repeat."

They shared a grimace at that. To go through it all twice in one night was too much, for both of them. Fidgeting with the sleeves of her flannel (having rolled them down for that specific purpose), Holly nodded resolutely. If it would help him, she would sacrifice her sleep without a qualm.

"Okay. Um, well…" she trailed off, trying to think of something to occupy his mind, bring him away from the blackness entirely. Lighting upon an idea, her head jerked up, and her eyebrows inclined. "Actually, you know the book I'm writing?"

He spiked an eyebrow in return. Of course he knew what book she was talking about; it had been a major project that she'd been working through for four years, roughly.

"Yeah?"

"Well, I was kind of stuck on a passage. Not really sure of the wording," she told him. Hooking a thumb towards the door, she offered, "I've got it printed off. You want to read it, and let me know how it sounds?"

A distraction, both of them recognizing it for what it was. It was one that he would gladly take.

"Sure," he acquiesced, one more kiss given before she went off to fetch the papers. It wasn't a quick fix, didn't magically make it all go away, but it was enough to ground him with her. Long minutes passed in which he looked over the papers, reading quickly as she explained her troubles with the text. He wasn't sure what he could do to help; his talents resided along the lines of strategic planning and sketching, not so much with constructing a narrative. Still, she kept him engaged, kept his mind occupied as she asked whether or not the main character's motivations seemed sound, or if there was too much introspection. Shrugging, he gave her the only idea his mind could come up: interspersing the introspection as the young, empowered girl escaped her captors' grasp, pointing out how a paragraph or two could be moved to help with the flow, as she termed it. Her dark eyes lit up, a smacking kiss pressed to his cheek in thanks when she mentally restructured a couple paragraphs in her mind and found that his opinion was on the mark. Sure enough, an hour had been passed by that point, her eyelids drooping as she retrieved a pen from the bedside table, jotting down notes to make adjustments in the morning. Her appreciation for his help knew no bounds, she'd reassured him when he prompted her to lay the papers aside and go back to sleep.

Just as his for hers knew no bounds as well, he had whispered as she curled up beside him, her head on his chest. Lulled by the strong, steady beat of his heart and his calmed breathing, she soon was gone, her fingers tangled with his over his stomach. Steve blinked up at the ceiling, lids heavy as her warmth was absorbed. It wasn't a cure; he knew that for a fact, knew that what was inside his heart and mind could not be eradicated with a kiss and a distraction. But it was enough to calm him, bring him back down. It was enough for him to actively reach for his phone on the nightstand, a low-voiced message left for his therapist, once appointed at Fury's behest and had now become somewhat of a (unobtrusive, but necessary) fixture in the background of his life. It had been awhile since they had talked; it would probably be best to remedy that as soon as possible.

If for no other reason than that he wanted to get through the night holding his girl, unafraid of the world inside his head. As unafraid as he was at that moment, was his last conscious thought before turning off the lamp and letting the darkness of the night settle around them both.


	2. Chapter 2

Late May, 2015

It was like a shot, that small whimper in the dark. In a normal circumstance, it might not have even been detected by the second sleeping body in the bed. However, when the second sleeping body was that of a super-soldier, with the training to be roused at a moment's notice for the tiniest aberration of sound and with advanced hearing to boot, it was not missed. Wide blue eyes blinked in the inky blackness of the room, adjusting to the shadows little by little. Ears were poised to catch the barest noise, and in a few seconds the vigilance was rewarded, though it could hardly be termed as such. Another whimper, followed by a gasp to the left.

It was Holly.

Rolling over carefully, Steve could make out the form of his fiancee, her body curled in on itself, her shoulders tensed and jerking at odd intervals. The leftover mist of sleep were banished from his mind when she shuddered, hard enough to cause a slight tremor to ripple across the mattress. Snapping on his bedside lamp, the splotches of light danced across his vision as he sat up, moved closer to her. Looking down, her profile was scrunched, mouth in a tight grimace, sweat on her brow and the fading red of the scar above her eyebrow more pronounced as harsh lines cut across the skin. Fingers curled and loosened atop the comforter. In sleep, she had shuffled all the way towards the edge of the bed, dangerously close to sliding off onto the floor.

A sinking feeling pierced Steve's gut as he watched her struggle. Ever since Ultron's creation and ultimate demise, Holly had not been sleeping well. Granted, there were a lot of other factors contributing to her lack of rest: losing her old job, planning a wedding to take place at the end of the next month, being forced to pack up her apartment and leave her home of five years, running around and actively working with Maria to sway major corporations into supporting the team's endeavors...

 _'Watching you almost bite the bullet, and being sweet-talked into that position in the first place,'_ his brain kicked back at him. Violently, he shook his head in an attempt to dislodge the thought. The point of the matter was, she had been under a good portion of strain for the better part of three weeks, none of which would let up anytime soon, as it seemed. It wouldn't even allow her the escape into dreams, and it made his stomach contract all the more. It wasn't often that she had nightmares; sure, she'd accidentally smacked him in the arm while she dozed once or twice, but it had never progressed beyond that point. Not to the point of trying to make herself a smaller target, her limbs twisting and her body desperately trying to get away. Steve knew how bad his nightmares were, knew that it was better for him to ride them out until he could wake and take care of himself, but now that he was on the other side of the fence, he had no idea if that would be the right thing to do for her. The fear was real, and he hated to think that she was afraid of something inside her own mind. Afraid of something he could not protect her from.

His hand was forced, however, when another gasp floated out and she shifted instinctively sideways.

"Holly!" he cried impulsively, his arm automatically flying out and curling around her waist. He barely caught her in time, her legs falling off the side of the bed while he pinned her torso to his. The shock of both the shout and her feet grazing the carpet jerked her awake, a breathy little scream ripping out of her throat. Her arms shot out, one hand snatching at the top sheet and the other clawing at his wrist. Nails embedded into his skin as she tried to shake him off, fight for her bearings, and the sudden pain was intense.

"Jesus!" he growled, but he maintained his grip, holding onto her tightly. Bending his head closer to her ear, he attempted to keep his tone gentle. "Hey, hey, it's just me."

Her writhing and shaking stilled as the words penetrated her mind, through the leftover cobwebs.

"Steve..." she breathed. The hand on his arm relaxed, crescent shapes left in the skin from her nails. Her head fell back slightly, nearly smacking into his as she inhaled sharply. "Holy shit."

Nodding once, he brought his other arm around her, pulling her back from the edge. "I've got you, sweetheart, I've got you."

Shifting under the sheets, he shuffled them both towards the center of the bed, letting go of her once she was safe and secure next to him. Bodily, anyway. She brought her knees up to her chest, wrapping her arms around them and pressing her face into them, into the comforter swathing them.

"Bad dream?" he asked, the question more rhetorical than anything else. He'd had his answer long before she spoke. Still, she did say something, eventually.

Holly snorted, fingers shaking as she combed through her hair and grumbled, "It was the worst good dream I've ever had, if it wasn't."

Wryness tugged at the corner of Steve's mouth, but it fell away as quiet reigned. It was clear how troubled the dream had made his fiancee; the rigid lines on her forehead had barely fallen, and her entire body was still tense. Perhaps he could get her some water, or something.

"You need anything?" he wondered, turning back the bedclothes in preparation to get her whatever she wanted. Mutely, she shook her head, teeth worrying her bottom lip. He dipped his chin, staying put and resettling the sheets again. Scratching the back of his neck, he contemplated another idea, inwardly debating for a few moments before speaking again. "You want to tell me what it was about? If you don't, then you don't have to. Just..."

A hand cupped in the air, his offer left to hang between them for a few moments. He wanted to help her, needed to help her. But how could he, when she sat there, quaking and quiet? Her dark gaze met his for some time, trailing over his face and body as if memorizing every detail, as if she were reminding herself of something. Hesitantly, she extended her hand towards him, pads brushing along the curve of his jaw before running down his neck to his shoulder. Goosebumps erupted along the exposed skin, the clamminess of her palm met with the dryness of his shirt. He still accepted her touch, letting it run down his arm until her fingers came to his, threading them together loosely.

Exhaling, she shrugged her shoulders back, and started to speak.

It was turmoil, from the start. Holly had dreamed she was in the Tower, just after Ultron and his sentries had ransacked it. Stepping through the robotics bay onto the main floor, she had discovered that she as alone, dodging sparking wires and picking her way over sheets of broken glass. Everything was broken, from furniture to steps on the staircase, and it was oddly...quiet. The silence was deafening, oppressive, her voice lost as she tried to scream, call out for help. Anything to affirm she wasn't alone. When she'd heard a noise, a shout, she turned towards a hole that had been punched through one of the windows. At once, she maneuvered towards it. Ducking to avoid the shards, a burst of daylight had blinded her briefly. Instead of setting foot on a steel girder, her boot hit dirt and stone.

It was Novi Grad, risen high and threatening to fall at any moment. Panic had set in, particularly as she'd heard the noise again, and yet she was trapped in a barren, broken city. Holly had started to run, narrowly avoiding bent overhangs and tripping past vehicles that were stalled or on fire. The noise kept beckoning her, but she had no idea where it was coming from or which direction to head. On top of that, she felt as though she were being watched, followed as she went. Something was behind her, darting out the corner of her eye every time she looked back to see what it was. Careening around a corner, she happened upon the marketplace, sliding over the broken cobblestones and barely avoiding the exposed rebar jutting out of the ground. Smoke choked her, but before she could do more than cough, she was immobile, rooted to the spot.

The quinjet was in the air, a glint of silver in the cockpit telling her exactly whom the pilot was. A cracking cut through the air, followed by a spurt of fire, and she realized what she'd been hearing that whole time: gunfire. Tracing its line of fire, Holly sucked in another deep breath, unable to shout for the people in the way to run. Clint was hit first, followed by Pietro. They had barely hit the ground before Tony zoomed in, the leaden curtain of shots piercing him and grounding him as well. Natasha and Bruce absorbed the following rounds, the hulking mass of the doctor shrinking in on itself and the Black Widow's body landing atop his, both unmoving. It was like a river of blood had risen, coating over them all. A roar came from the right, indicative of Thor succumbing to the hailstorm And when the streak of navy, white, and red shot out...

Red-rimmed eyes latched onto him then, and Steve froze, holding his breath as Holly struggled to get hers under control.

"And, and...you didn't get the shield up in time. You, you just—"

She couldn't say it, couldn't even think it. The memory what she had seen in the nightmare was still too fresh, and she could recall it almost perfectly. The spray of bullets, the shield flying out of his grasp, the horror and shock in his eyes as he collapsed. Her scream of despair finally escaping her...Her eyes slammed shut, and she bit her lip for a few seconds to stop herself from crying, to stop herself from sinking back into it.

There was not much to tell after that, she'd mumbled. Once Steve, and all the other Avengers had been laid to waste, the jet made a pass, turning to come at her next. Unfortunately, or fortunately, that was when the ground fell out from under her, the city plummeting back to the earth and her going with it. Before impact had been made, her feet had hit the floor, and she was awake. A shuddering breath racked her, her face burying itself into her knees again. Steve's hand smoothed over her back, sliding up and down, its warmth bleeding through the material of her tank top. A renegade tear or two seeped out, but she turned her head away from him, dashed them from her face as quickly as they had fallen. Steve, having endured her entire tale in silence, scooted closer to her, pulling her into his embrace. He turned her so that her legs could crook over his lap, guiding her head to rest on his shoulder as he held her. A shaky gasp, and then she slung her arms around him, sniffles coming out as her face went into the join of his neck. Wetness dripped down his skin, soaking into the collar of his tee. Immediately, he held her tighter, beginning to rock slightly as her silent tears morphed into muffled sobs.

"Shh, shh," he murmured, his heart aching in his chest as he did his best to soothe her. His palm stroked her hair slowly, his cheek laid along the side of her head. There was no pat assurance that he could give her, no definite word that the dreams would pass and all would be well again soon. Granted, she had not been involved majorly in all the events, but she had been involved enough. She had suffered through a form of trauma, having witnessed Ultron's commandeering of the quinjet herself, having been able to do nothing but watch as he and the others were fired upon. Let alone his first attack, where she'd been menaced as well as them. He had gotten his shield up, though, and he had tucked and rolled himself to hide, as did Thor (who had been right beside him). Clint hadn't fallen, nor did Pietro or the little boy they both were protecting. Sam had done his duty, distracting the automaton, and Bucky had gotten his shot. They were all still alive.

He could assure her of that much, at least. So he held her, cradled her against him as he told her, over and over, that it was alright, that he was still there with her and loved her. The erratic sobs began to peter off, the tearstains on his shirt not being added to. Sniffing hard, Holly brought her head up, eyes closing as Steve pressed a kiss to her hairline.

"You want to know the dumbest part?" She sniffed, wiping her eyes and huffing under her breath. "I knew agreeing to go out as Maria asked would give me nightmares. I _knew_ it, and did it, anyway. How stupid is that?"

"Not at all," he countered her sentiment. A finger traced indiscernible patterns over her knee, and he attempted a smirk. "Understanding that there are consequences to your actions is a sign of intelligence."

Her eyes rolled at that, but a streak of humor passed over her face. "Comforting."

That earned an outright grin, though it faded after a couple of seconds. Mired in the heavy silence, in the spoken truth between them, they were lost to their own thoughts. Steve bit the inside of his lip, considering everything. Holly's worry, stress, and minor paranoia (not that he would ever term it as such to her face) had conjured up a form of hell in her mind, robbing her of the safety security of her own mind. It was something he was all too familiar with, and it hurt his heart to see it happening to her, too. It shouldn't have happened, not to her.

"It wasn't your fault," he asserted aloud, sighing and leaning back into the headboard. "None of it."

He missed the furrow of Holly's brow, but he could hear it in her tone when she answered his proclamation.

"Wasn't yours, either."

Steve snorted at that, a wave of self-deprecation and loathing coasting through him. "I think that's debatable."

"I don't," she said flatly, stamping down on his urge to self-flagellate. The overall situation with Ultron, the battle in Sokovia and her subconscious choosing to feed on her stress and expound it was not to be laid at either of their doors. How she acted, and reacted, were up to her. Her fiance's responsibilities concerned other things. If he insisted she not take the blame, then she would make sure he did not, either. Though her dreams preyed upon one of her deepest, worst fears, she hadn't told Steve so that he would feel guilt and shame for it. She'd told him so that she could keep her sanity, to understand that what had happened in her mind had not come to fruition. That even though she had seen horrible and frightening things, they were not the entirety of her reality. Being with Steve meant that there would be a lot of bad that came with the good. It was the good, though, that she was fighting to remember, to push the bad to the bottom. She would not allow it to consume her, even as she still flushed with fear and felt sick just thinking about the nightmare.

It wasn't real, not the outcome, at least. What was real was the bed she was in, the graze of cotton on her skin and the warmth of her fiance as she leaned into him.

Shaking her head, she blurted, "It was just a mess."

"Yes, it was," he agreed. His eyes opened, and he let his palms coast up to cup her face, drawing her in to rest her forehead against his. " But we're still here. I'm still here, and I intend to stick around."

"You better," she told him, the last traces of her fright and sorrow shoved down as she tilted her head. Her lips met his, and she lost herself in his kiss. Gentle, tender pecks were dropped, replaced with longer, rougher strokes when her teeth tugged at his bottom lip. Opening up to her, he moaned as tongues met and swirled, the feel of him alive and well underneath her driving her on and heating her up. However, a wave of exhaustion flooded through her after a minute or two, and her body gave way to it. When the kisses slowed and stopped, she lowered herself down on the mattress beside Steve, a mumbled apology fluttering out. His blue gaze stared down at her, his minor frustration met with relief that she appeared to be alright, still. Tipping his chin up, his lips thinned for a moment. Suddenly, he moved away from her, legs swinging over the side of the bed and carrying him over to the dresser.

Tiredly, her eyebrows rose. "What are you doing?"

"Getting something," he shot over his shoulder, fetching up the wallet that was stationed next to his watch and keys. Opening it, he with drew a small card, the edges slightly worn and a tiny tear decorating the left side. Striding back to the bed, his bashful look came over his face as he sat down. "It's up to you whether you want to use it or not, but, well...here."

Holding out the card to her, he waited as Holly took it, turning it over in her fingers. Doctor Robert Tobin, board certified psychiatrist, stamped in fancy script and in black ink. Steve was recommending his doctor, really? An audible scoff shot out of her then, and her expression contorted in incredulity.

"It was one bad dream, Steve."

"Yes, that came from a rash of bad things and your own life being turned upside down," he pointed out, not unkindly. A lot change and upset had crashed through her life in just a few short weeks, and while it had only manifested itself as a nightmare, he shuddered to think what it could do to her in the future. It wouldn't go away; it would always be a part of her now. And it wasn't a question of her personal strength, either. To love him, to live with him and his strange life, it had to take a good measure of strength. It was a question of maintaining it, and giving her the tools to keep pushing on. He lifted a shoulder and focused on the comforter, picking at it. "Like I said, you don't have to use it. But, well...it's helped me."

The rejection had sat on the tip of her tongue. That was before, though. Before the reminder of all that had come to pass, the things she'd lost, the tasks she'd taken on. While she had done so at her discretion, it did not erase the weight each decision and event had placed upon her, pushing her down and stringing her out. She looked up at Steve, could see the deep concern in his irises, the faint lines of worry and fear cutting across his brow, lining his mouth. All for her. It could happen again, an endless cycle of horror and despair in her mind that would torment her while she dealt with the fallout in her conscious life. Glancing down at the card again, she sighed.

It would at least help to talk to someone about it all, she mused inwardly. If she wanted.

"I'll...I'll think about it, okay?" she said, not outright promising anything, but not pushing the idea away. It was all she could do, at that late hour and her head swimming with exhaustion and residual tremors. Rolling to her left, she placed the card on her nightstand, to be examined and pondered in the morning. Risking a look over her shoulder, she saw something akin to relief in Steve's face.

"Okay," he replied, turning the sheets back and climbing in again. Once he'd laid down, she shuffled over, head resting on his chest and a leg tangling with his. The barest chuckle rumbled in his throat, his arm looping around her easily and making her snuggle closer. "Can you sleep, or do you want to try and stay up longer?"

"Stay up. Talk to me, please," Holly insisted, despite the drooping of her eyelids and the gravel invading her voice. Considering a point on the ceiling for a moment, he acceded to her request, telling her about the designs Tony had shown him for the new base, how the quarters would be set up, with her humming occasionally to signal her awareness of his words. Their new home was nearly ready, he confirmed, with the last of the recruits for the first wave being canvassed and hired out. When he'd run out of things to say about that, he rolled on with a story from his adolescence, one involving Bucky, a bully, and a steaming pile of trash in mid-August Brooklyn. Just as he was describing how the rough-and-tumble fistfight had turned into a disgusting swim on the sidewalk, he heard the snuffling snort. Peeking down, he exhaled slowly, pleased to see that Holly had fallen into sleep without a trace of her former distress. Reaching over, he turned his lamp off, giving as much comfort as he was getting while drifting back into slumber himself.

* * *

 **A/N:** And we have Holly's turn with nightmares.

I think it's fairly obvious that I do not work in nightmare treatment, nor am I psychologist/psychiatrist/psychotherapist. I also do not think that every nightmare needs to be analyzed or talked about with a doctor. However, I do think it would probably be likely that Holly would get some form of therapy, or at least one session in, to help process all that was going on at that time in the narrative of _The Eleventh Hour._ I briefly mentioned therapy for Steve and the possibility of it for Holly in that story, but I never really have addressed it. So, I sorta did here. I genuinely think that after being "defrosted," Steve had to go through some intensive treatment, just to be able to function in a world he does not understand and a time he was not born into. It's also my canon that he does not have outstanding appointments with his therapist, but he will schedule them on an as-needed basis, just so he can deal. Since it has become more socially acceptable to seek treatment (and because I have made it canon that SHIELD agents were required to do so) he continues this practice throughout the timeline.

I just wanted to show that the characters aren't always hunky-dory, and that Holly does actually live with the trauma of her experiences. She's just learned how to handle them...somehow. Steve as well.

I own nothing from the MCU, nor do I own any other pop culture references that may have been made in the text.

Thanks for reading, please review, and I'll see you all later!


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